terbuck slowly toward the far end of the tunnel； where his last ride was waiting； parked on the soft shoulder of the highway。 The gurney's hard rubber wheels moaned on the boards； its shadow rode the bulging brick wall； waxing and waning； Dean and Harry grasped the sheet at the foot and pulled it up over The Chief's face； which had already begun to take on the waxy； characterless cast of all dead faces； the innocent as well as the guilty。
6。
When I was eighteen； my Uncle Paul … the man I was named for … died of a heart attack。 My mother and dad took me to Chicago with them to attend his funeral and visit relatives from my father's side of the family； many of whom I had never met。 We were gone almost a month。 In some ways that was a good trip； a necessary and exciting trip； but in another way it was horrible。 I was deeply in love； you see； with the young woman who was to bee my wife two weeks after my nieenth birthday。 One night when my longing for her was like a fire burning out of control in my heart and my head （oh yes； all right； and in my balls； as well）； I wrote her a letter that just seemed to go on and on … I poured out my whole heart in it； never looking back to see what I'd said because I was afraid cowardice would make me stop。 I didn't stop； and when a voice in my head clamored that it would be madness to mail such a letter； that I would be giving her my naked heart to hold in her hand； I ignored it with a child's breathless disregard of the consequences。 I often wondered if Janice kept that letter； but never quite got up enough courage to ask。 All I know for sure is that I did not find it when I went through her things after the funeral； and of course that by itself means nothing。 I suppose I never asked because I was afraid of discovering that